Authors: Daniel Quinn
After Dachau (5 page)
She stubbornly refused to hear anyone say that Mallory evidently knew no such thing.
Mallory’s friend
returned with an armload of coffee-table books filled with pictures of people—movie stars, fashion models, musicians, workers, farmers, people at sporting events, at political rallies, at concerts, on holiday, in courtrooms, on street corners. Mallory went through them like a threshing machine, giving each page no more than a glance, then furiously swept them all off the bed and buried her head under a pillow.
“What is it, Mallory?” her friend asked, stunned. “What are you looking for?”
Mallory shook her head wordlessly.
Her friend gathered up the books and was about to leave when it occurred to her to wonder if Mallory wanted to keep them. After voicing the question, she realized she was wasting her breath, since Mallory probably couldn’t comprehend what she was hearing. She carefully set the books down on the bed, close enough to Mallory that she couldn’t avoid feeling them against her hip. With a convulsive twist of her body, Mallory sent them flying off the bed a second time.
Her friend gathered them up again and left without saying another word. At this point (she would later say), she knew the woman in the bed “wasn’t Mallory.” Mallory, she insisted, would never behave that way, not in a million years.
BECAUSE THE
New York newspapers carried the story (in a predictably souped-up version), we heard about it in Tunis almost immediately, and I took the first available flight out. I might have saved myself the trouble, since hospital officials saw no reason to let me in, and Mr. and Mrs. Hastings turned up their noses as soon as I explained who I was. Members of the sensationalist press had standing, but I was persona non grata (and a foreigner as well, despite my famous name and the fact that I’d grown up within sight of Central Park).
Leaving a local associate to stand watch at the hospital, I took the opportunity to pay a visit to the ancestral home, arriving unannounced, as I always did, because it seemed not to make the slightest difference whether my parents knew I
was coming or not. They greeted me as if I’d been gone a week, when in fact it had been close to four years.
“What good luck,” Mother said cheerily. “Uncle Harry’s coming to dinner. He’ll be so glad to see you. He always asks for news of you.”
“Does he really?” I replied, mildly surprised to hear that he hadn’t given up on me by now.
Mother liked doing things in the baronial style to which our means presumably entitled us, so dinner was like a state affair, for which everyone dressed, including me. My room was untouched, with racks of clothes that I’d left behind, and I had my pick of four virtually identical suits of evening wear. Mother had come along to advise, and tutted when she saw them, for naturally they were no longer quite in the pink of fashion. I caught her eyeing my waist to see if the measurements on record with my tailor needed to be adjusted and knew that a new array of dinner jackets would be awaiting me on my next visit. I also knew there was nothing in the world I could say that would dissuade her from ordering them.
Dinner was charming
and fun, and I heard all my parents’ news, which is hardly ever really news. The old things the very rich do are so stupendously wonderful that they almost never have to trouble themselves to do new ones.
Naturally they wanted to hear all about my adventures, which they listened to with only the slightest air of condescension. They saw no great difference between someone like Rudolph Kintmacher of Johannesburg and Eddie Tucker of Council Bluffs, though Mother would say “What fun!” about the first and “How sad!” about the second, treating
them both like elaborate fictions cooked up for her amusement.
Uncle Harry, taking it a bit more seriously, wanted to know what I made of it all. “Do you really think Rita May’s soul lives in Eddie Tucker’s body?”
“I truly don’t know what to think,” I told him. “Can you come up with another explanation?”
While he was pondering this, my father shifted in his chair in a way that reliably summons the attention of the table and said, “What I can’t see is that it matters a damn. Just for the sake of argument, let’s say there is such a thing as a soul animating my body. And let’s suppose you could certify beyond doubt that this identical soul once animated the body of Julius Caesar. Isn’t that the theory, more or less?”
“Yes, more or less.”
“Well, what difference could it possibly make? Why would anyone care, since I don’t have access to the memories of Julius Caesar?”
“But that’s the whole point,” I said. “Suppose you woke up one morning and found that you
did
have access to his memories.”
“Then I hope someone would have the good sense to pack me off to the loony bin,” he said, and concluded the meal (and the discussion) by tossing his napkin onto the table in front of him.
As hard as
I tried to avoid being sequestered with Harry, he tried harder to corner me, so we finally ended up
tête-à-tête
.
“I hope you won’t mind if I’m blunt,” he said.
“I’ll brace myself for it, Uncle Harry.”
He frowned, not quite sure he liked my jaunty tone. “It’s just that I wouldn’t want to see you lose yourself in this reincarnation business,” he said. “I’ve seen it happen to other men. They start a thing as a hobby, then it swallows them up. They come to a point where they can’t think of anything else, can’t get involved with anything else.”
“Aren’t you swallowed up in your work?”
“Yes,” he said, without hesitation. “And if I weren’t, I’d be useless to it.”
“And the difference?”
“The difference is, Jason, that this reincarnation thing is going to come to nothing. You can spend a lifetime on it—six lifetimes, if you like—and in the end you’ll be exactly what you are right now, a voice crying in the wilderness, with no one listening and no one caring. You’re trying to prove something that’s no more susceptible of proof than ghosts or second sight or life after death. When you’re all finished, it’ll be just the way it is now: The believers will believe and the unbelievers won’t, and your work won’t have made a particle of difference.”
“Whereas yours does.”
“Walk with me a week, Jason, and you’ll
know
it does.”
His earnestness made it impossible for me to be indignant. He wasn’t trying to insult me or to hurt my feelings.
“What would you like me to say?” I asked him.
“That you’ll give some serious thought to what I’m telling you.”
“All right, I’ll do that.”
He confessed he couldn’t ask for more than that.
• • •
The next morning
I located some of my mother’s stationery and went to work on a letter.
Dear Mallory (if I may):
My name will mean nothing to you. I suspect that all the names of the people who are haunting your life at the moment mean nothing to you. But although you don’t know me (and I don’t know you), I’m going to make three important guesses about you.
First: Y
OU’RE NOT
M
ALLORY
H
ASTINGS AT ALL
. You may or may not know who you really are, but you definitely know you’re not Mallory Hastings, no matter what the people around you are saying.
Second: Y
OU DON’T KNOW HOW YOU GOT WHERE YOU ARE
. The last thing you remember is that you were someone else and somewhere else.
Third: Y
OU’RE AFRAID TO SPEAK THE TRUTH TO THE PEOPLE AROUND YOU
. You don’t know what would happen if you told them that you’re not Mallory Hastings and that your last memory is of being someone else, somewhere else.
So now, Mallory (as I’ll have to call you till I know your real name), please tell me how I’ve done with my guesses.
The phone listed at the bottom of this stationery is answered twenty-four hours a day. I’m sure the people at the hospital will let you make a long-distance call if you ask them. Or you can write to me at the address below. That’ll take a little longer, but do whatever is comfortable for you.
I hope you’ll believe me when I say I understand what you’re going through and only want to help. And I can help, I’m sure of that.
Sincerely,
Jason Tull, Jr.
At this point, I’d learned none of the specifics of Mallory’s situation, but I knew from experience that my “guesses” were virtual certainties. It’s axiomatic in paranormal research that the honest run into a wall of disbelief while deliberate hoaxers win ready acceptance.
Dear Mr. Tull,
Thanks for your letter, and I really mean that. To this drowning woman, it was a lifeline. It gave me the incentive I needed to work with the speech therapists here—or I should say it gave me a
reason
to work with them. When I received your letter, I desperately wanted to call you, but I knew I wouldn’t be able to make myself understood over the phone. I was afraid you’d think I was an idiot and give up on me, so I really went to work and will be much improved by the time this reaches you.
You scored three out of three right on your guesses. Because I’m afraid of the people here (and especially the woman who insists she’s my mother), I didn’t show your letter to anyone. But I wanted to find out why you wrote to me, so I asked one of the nurses if she’d ever heard of you.
She said, oh sure, but the man she was thinking of was your father. She didn’t know anything about Jason Tull, Jr.
So these are the questions on my mind right now. How were you able to make your three guesses? You say you want to help me, but how? Did someone put a spell on me that you can undo? I hope you don’t mind my asking. Anyway, the real question is, what next? What do you have in mind? And what should I do, if anything?
You’ve already helped, by giving me something to hope for, and I thank you for that.
Mallory (for now)
Dear Mallory (and please make it Jason):
I don’t at all mind your asking how I knew and how I can help but would rather answer these questions in person if I may. This brings me to what comes next and to what you can do.
What’s next is for me to visit you in the hospital. What you can do is tell the people there, first, that I’m coming, and, second, that you want me to be passed through (which I was not the last time I was there). I feel sure you can insist on this. It isn’t as though you’re a ten-year-old. You’re an adult and certainly have a right to choose your own associates.
The hospital people may feel obliged to tell Mrs. Hastings about this. You can ask them not to if you feel like it, but there’s probably no way to stop them.
Since Mrs. Hastings doesn’t understand the situation, she’s trying to do the next best thing, which is to control it. She may very well perceive me as a threat to her control and try to block me from seeing you. If it looks like this is going to happen, then you’d better phone me. If necessary, I can arrive with a battalion of lawyers to persuade everyone that they don’t want to get into a position where they seem to be
holding you against your will. As I understand it, the hospital’s stance is that there’s no reason why you can’t go home, so that should settle the matter for them. But I don’t know what “home” means. Did Mallory live with her parents or somewhere else? It won’t hurt to have the answers to questions like these. You presumably have a driver’s license, and that’ll have an address on it.
This letter should be in your hands in two or three days at the most. I’ll present myself at the hospital on the fourth day. If there’s some problem, phone me. Otherwise, I’ll see you soon.
Jason
Mrs. Hastings evidently decided (or was persuaded) that yielding gracefully was going to work better for her than drawing a battle line across the hospital steps, so I was waved through to the elevators as if I were a kinsman. The press had published no pictures of Mallory, so I was unprepared for what I saw when I pushed my way through the door to her room: a flawless Aryan snow maiden—milky skin, eyes as blue as the Mediterranean, and hair as yellow as the sun. I suppose I was gawking a bit when the girl in the bed glanced up from her book, with her wounded eyes and chaste, narrow lips making her look rather more like an elfin child than a woman of twenty-six. She returned my gaze for a moment, then produced an almost imperceptible shrug.